


New In Town

by twistercas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bromance to Romance, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Divorce, F/F, F/M, M/M, Sexy Times, Small Towns, So many emotions, Tattoo Artist Dean, accidentally breaking up a marriage, coffee shop and book store combo, so fluffy its disgusting, too much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistercas/pseuds/twistercas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has lived in Kansas all his life. When he moved a few hours from home to Carver, Kansas, it was because he loved small towns. He liked the routine of them, how they never seemed to change much. Plus, that's where practically everyone he knew has somehow ended up. Then, Benny Lafitte came to town. And suddenly everything was changing and routines went out the window. This newest addition to the town caught Dean's eye immediately. Only problem? Benny is married.<br/>But it can't hurt to become friends with him.... right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The House Down the Street

**Author's Note:**

> I update waay too slowly. Which is why I wanted to write quite a bit of this story before posting it anywhere. Buuut I was really curious to see if anyone actually would think the start of it was any good. So, I've got 2 and a half chapters done. Here's the first chapter. I would looove some feedback, is this crap?

“Someone’s moving into that blue house down the street.”

It’s the first thing Jo says when she wrenches open the door to greet Dean, who came over like he does every Thursday night, for pizza night with her and Charlie.

Dean snorts, “Hello to you to, Joanna.” He slides past her and yells a hello to Charlie. She calls back from somewhere in the back of the little home and Dean smiles. 

“Don’t call me that. Anyway, it’s exciting isn’t it?”

“I guess?” Dean begins walking towards the kitchen with Jo trailing behind him like this is his house and not hers. He’s here enough that Jo and Charlie joke about him moving in.

“Oh come on Dean, nobody new ever comes here.”

Dean chuckles, “Small town Kansas ain’t exactly a hot-spot dream destination.”

‘Small town’ might not be the most accurate description for Carver, Kansas. It’s small, yes, with a population of about 3,000 (hell, Dean went to college with a guy whose high school itself had almost 3,000 students). But that’s still big enough that not everyone knows each other. Personally, at least. 

Jo and Dean enter the kitchen just as Charlie pulls the pizza from the oven. Her homemade pizza made the entire house smell like an Italian pizzeria and tasted just as good as anything you’d find at one. Dean takes a deep breath and wafts the smell towards his nose.

“Ahh, Charlie this smells like your best one yet.”

“You say that every time.” She pulls out a pizza cutter and soon all three of them have plates piled high with their traditional Thursday night dinner.

“So, Dean.” Charlie says nonchalantly when the three of them are settled in the living room with a Star Trek re-run playing in the background and their dinner on plates in their laps.

Dean groans around a mouthful of pizza. He’s had enough conversations that started like that to know this is going to go somewhere he does not want. Dean would bet good money Charlie was about to take this conversation topic into the romance category. 

“Hmmph.” He grunted by way of answer.

Charlie glances away from the TV to look at Dean, “How are...things. At the parlor?”

Dean raises an eyebrow at her and glances to where Jo is sitting on the carpet, but Jo has suddenly become incredibly fascinated with the conversation happening between Captain Kirk and Spock on the TV screen.

“Things are fine, Charlie. Same as always.” He replies. The “parlor” is the tattoo parlor where Dean works. Actually, Dean practically lives at that place. He takes another bite of pizza and chews it slowly. He swallows, and looks at her.

“I know that’s not the thing you really wanted to ask.” He says with a laugh. He knows exactly what they both want to ask.

Charlie sighs and gives him a bitch face he _knows_ she couldn’t have picked up from anybody but his little brother Sam.

“Dean, you’re almost thirty-”

“Shhh, don’t talk about that.” He interrupts; she ignores him.

“-don’t you want to _find_ someone? Settle down? Or don’t settle down, I know you’ve always wanted to travel.”

“Charlie.” Dean’s tone is stern. They’ve had this conversation before. “Charlie not everyone needs someone to be happy. I love my job, my family, I have you guys, _I am happy.”_

Dean is twenty-nine years old, that’s three years older than Jo and a year older than Charlie. So why is it they both seem to think that it’s their job to constantly worry about him like fretting mothers?

He’s already got a mother to fret over him, and Mary Winchester does a first class job of it, even from long distance. 

“I know you’re happy, I’m not saying you aren’t, we just want to see you be happy _with_ someone.”

Dean sighs and takes a bite of his pizza to avoid replying. He won’t admit that he misses having a girlfriend, or boyfriend; he likes having someone to share things with, like a bed, or a home, or a life. 

Charlie starts back up when she realizes he isn’t going to answer her. “Dean you haven’t even been on a date with anyone since you were twenty-five.”

“And that one didn’t go too well now did it?” Dean chuckles. That particular date had been his third one, actually, with a guy he had met in their senior year of college. Castiel Milton. The guy was gorgeous; dark, messy hair, eyes bluer than the Carribbean, and a nice body to boot. Only problem was that Cas had been still totally hung up on his ex, who incidentally happened to show up in the middle of his and Dean’s dinner date to beg for Cas to come back. Cas did go back to him, and now they're married. Cas and Balthazar actually own a tiny little antique shop two down from the tattoo parlor where Dean works. He considers them close friends.

Jo looks away from the TV to chime into the conversation. “Is that why you’re not dating?”

“ _No!_ For Christ’s sake guys, I will date when I meet someone I want to date, okay?” Dean, exasperated, throws his hands up in the air and nearly knocks his pizza-crust covered plate onto the floor.

Charlie holds her hands up in defeat, “Alright, alright! We just don’t want you to become like a bat-shit crazy cat lady or something.” Jo snorts at that.

Dean smacks her with a pillow. “First off, I’m not a lady, and second, I will never own more than one cat. Which altogether means that I clearly could not be considered a crazy cat lady.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and grabs her own pillow, set on retaliation. She raises it over her head and lets out a battle cry. “Prepare to face the Queen’s wrath, Winchester!”

“You’re such a fucking nerd.”

“Says the guy who picked Star Trek to watch.”

“Ohhh, really now? I didn’t hear you complaining.” And with a loud "thump" of pillow meeting pillow, a fight for Pillow Champion had begun.

Jo is indifferent towards the scuffle happening on the couch, this is a normal thing. Dean and Charlie's "disagreements" have been ending in pillow fights since they were middle-schoolers. Jo spares a second to roll her eyes at the two toddlers on the couch before going back to the show.

"You break it, you buy it." Jo teases, without even looking away from the screen, when she hears a lamp thunk to the floor.

Dean, laughing, scrambles over the back of the couch and holds up the lamp, a white, frilly thing, in triumph and yells, "It's alive!"

“Okay Dr. Frankenstein calm yourself.” Charlie laughs.

"Speaking of calm." Jo says, pointing a finger at Dean and then at the couch.

Dean throws his head back with laughter, "All right, all right." He holds his hands up like a surrender.

Jo grins and stretches out onto her stomach. Her faded sweatshirt rides up to reveal the scrawling black ink of the simple tattoo she has on her side. Dean knows what it is, having done it himself when they were younger. It's says "tell our baby girl I love her." The last words her father said to her mother over a phone call right before being struck by a drunk driver.

"Hey Jo," Dean breaks the brief silence. "When ya planning on popping back in for another tattoo?"

She _had_ mentioned it a while back, Dean remembers laughing at the way Charlie’s eyes had lit up at the thought of her girlfriend having another tattoo. 

Jo chuckles, “When I come up with something good.” 

“You could always get Princess Leia, wearing a gold slave bikini, and straddling a 20-sided die.” Charlie deadpans.

“Tempting. But I was thinking more along the lines of Han Solo in frilly, pink underwear.” Jo grins at Charlie. 

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Gross.”

Jo and Charlie turn to Dean simultaneously, “Shut up, Dean.”

Dean snorts out a laugh. The light of the digital clock on the TV catches his eyes: 11:32 p.m.

He lets out a sigh and stretches his arms above his head saying, “I should probably head home, it’s later than I thought.”

The two girls protest, saying it’s not that late and he can crash on their couch if he wants. He turns them down with a smile, partly because he knows they really want to be alone and are just being courteous, but mostly because he wants to be alone too. He’s got customers scheduled to come into the parlor tomorrow, and he really needs a good night’s sleep.

Charlie and Jo each give him a hug and a peck on the cheek, then wave to him from the front window as he walks to his car, just like they do every time he leaves.

Dean slides behind the wheel of his sleek, black, ‘67 Chevy Impala, a hand-me-down from his dad for his nineteenth birthday, and the car rumbles out of the drive and into the street. Three houses down, there are lights on inside the little blue house that’s been vacant for months. A porch light illuminates the driveway enough for Dean to see a U-HAUL moving van parked next to a shadowy pick-up truck. He remembers what Jo said hours before, someone new _has_ come to town.

The headlights and deep rumble of a motorcycle catch Dean’s attention and he brings his eyes back to the road. To his surprise, the bike turns into the driveway of the blue house and Dean lets up on the gas without really meaning to. He slows down enough that he’s in front of the house when a big, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket climbs off the motorcycle and hangs his helmet on the handlebar. The man turns just slightly, and the porch light shines bright enough on him that Dean can see the scruff of an unshaven face and eyes so blue they shine even in the dark and from this distance.

Dean sucks in an involuntary sharp breath and then shakes his head and hits the gas. He writes off the odd moment as complete and utter exhaustion: a probable cause.

He doesn’t spare another thought for the town’s newest souls except for a flash of blue and leather as he’s drifting off to sleep five minutes after midnight.


	2. What Ifs

Dean is wrenched awake the next morning by the ear-shattering sound of a car horn honking right outside his open window. The downside to living in a loft with a temperamental air conditioning system, in the middle of town, especially in the summer, is that there is absolutely no blocking out unwanted noises. The middle of town is basically as urban as it gets around these parts, though still not very urban. Drive ten or fifteen minutes out of town and suddenly it’s cornfields as far as the eye can see.

With a loud groan, Dean literally rolls himself out of bed, barely getting his feet under himself in time to keep from falling completely off onto the floor.

The clock says it’s ten past seven, he has fifty minutes before he has to be at work. He gets himself ready and shows up early, like he does every day.

The parlor is only two blocks from his loft, so he only ever drives when it’s pouring down rain, hotter than Hell, or so cold his fingers would freeze and break off. Today it happens to be a solid 70 degrees out, perfect early June temperature.

A bell chimes above his head as Dean pushes his way into an old brick building with “Devil’s Advocate Tattoo” scrawled in red lettering above the entrance.

Inside, the place has a warm atmosphere, with hardwood floors and pictures and tattoo designs covering the burgundy painted walls. There are three different chairs for those getting work done, each with it’s own counter. Along the right side is a black leather couch and two armchairs. At the back sits the cash register and computer, on top of a sturdy wooden counter with glass cases displaying an abundance of piercings.

Dean is greeted by Bobby Singer and Crowley, the two men who own the place. They’re sitting at a round table near the back counter with two other men, both regular customers that Dean has met. Playing cards are spread out in front of them and a bottle of whiskey sits in the center of the table.

Dean laughs out loud at the sight, “You men do realize it’s barely eight in the morning right?” Only these guys would be drinking so early.

“I’m too old to be worrying about how much I drink.” Crowley shoots back in a thick British accent. Dean has known Crowley since he, himself, was twenty years old. The first things he learned about the man were that he moved from Ireland to England when he was eight, to America when he was twenty-two, and Crowley isn’t his real name. Said he got it from an Ozzy Osbourne song because “it fit the current situation well.” Whatever that current situation had been, he never tells, and Dean stopped asking after the third time his inquiries were met with a wicked glare.

Dean met Crowley through Bobby, but he couldn’t exactly say when he’d met Bobby, because the man had been there basically his entire life. He was friends with Dean’s father, John, and Dean and his brother Sam called him “Uncle.” But that wasn’t really a good enough title for who he was to them.

Bobby and Crowley had met when they both worked at a gas station-auto-shop combo in New York City, one that’s Bobby’s uncle owned. They became best friends, Crowley came with Bobby when Bobby moved back to Kansas, and they opened up a tattoo parlor and called it the first thing they could think of at the time.

Dean is eternally grateful for whatever it is that made them do something so incredibly insensible because without this place he probably would’ve ended up joining the army or going to prison instead of to college for art and business so he could someday take over the place.

Dean heads over to a room in the back of the parlor.  The room acts as a combination of an office and a place to meet with customers to discuss whatever design it is they’re making a life-long commitment to. He throws his jacket up on one of the hooks lining the far wall and when he comes back out Bobby is jokingly accusing Rufus, one of the men playing cards, of cheating, and Meg and Ash are coming up a pair of stairs that lead to the basement.

Meg and Ash are the other two tattoo artists Dean works with. Meg, actually, is Crowley’s daughter. She inherited his spitfire attitude along with his uncanny talent for guessing almost exactly what sort of tattoo a customer wants. Despite her small stature, Meg’s dyed black hair, piercing brown eyes, wicked smirk, and tattoo covered body make for a pretty intimidating image. Just the way she likes it.

“Hey Meg,” Dean greets her. “First customer is yours right?”

“Yea,” Meg replies. “Teenage girl, just turned eighteen. How much you wanna bet she gets ‘freedom’ tattooed on her wrist or side.”

Dean laughs, “I _don’t_ want to bet. I like my money where it is, in _my_ wallet not yours.”

“Damn it, I was hoping for some easy cash,” Meg jokes, bringing a laugh from everyone in the parlor.

Ash chimes in, “I’ll put money down that she gets either birds on her shoulder, or an anchor on her ankle.”

“I will take that gamble!” Meg points a finger at him, “Twenty bucks says I’m right.”

The jingle of the bell over the door cuts off whatever Ash was about to say and in walks the very girl they were talking about, blonde hair tied up in a bun and a white dress showing off tanned skin. She has a friend in tow, whose brown hair falls down to her waist and the amount of makeup on her face just screams “high schooler.”

Their image is a glaring contrast to the people and atmosphere in the parlor, and they giggle awkwardly when everyone turns to watch them walk in.

Dean, now lounging in one of the arm chairs on the side, catches the brunette ogling him and winks at her, she blushes deep red and Dean has to catch himself from laughing. Meg greets the girls with a wide smile and shoots Dean a look.

‘It’s Lilith isn’t it?” Meg starts, grabbing the blonde girl by the hand, much to the girl’s surprise, and tugging her towards the back office. “Do you have a design in mind already?”

The brunette trails behind them and throws a glance at Dean over her shoulder before all three girls disappear behind the closed, frosted glass door of the office.

Dean’s first customer, a man named Zachariah, comes in fifteen minutes after the two girls. He’s a regular, just came in for a touch-up on a design he had done a few years ago. Dean greets him with a smile and they settle into a process they’re both familiar with.

Dean doesn’t care much for this guy, he can be a bit of a dick. He never lets his dislike show of course, it’d be “bad for business” as Bobby says.

The touch-up takes slightly less than an hour; it’s an image of a burning cross, with a lot of oranges and reds. Dean finds the tattoo ironic considering Zachariah’s biblical name, and he’d make a joke about it if he didn’t think the man would break his arm.

When Dean finishes up on Zachariah’s ink and sends him on his way, he leans over Meg’s shoulder to check out what the blonde chick had decided on. He accidentally lets out a snort and earns himself wicked glares from both Meg and the girl, Lilith.

He grimaces apologetically but inside he’s chuckling to himself. He didn’t expect the tattoo he saw. It was a simple design, but it was located on the girl’s upper thigh, not her wrist. And it was little red devils horns, with a forked tail curling beneath. Clearly this girl is not all that meets the eye.

When Dean quietly tells the men still playing cards at the back table about the tattoo, Bobby barks out a laugh and says, “I wonder how they’re gonna settle that argument.”

Dean agrees, he can’t wait to see how heated Meg and Ash get over this one. They all know Meg will somehow try to argue that Ash should still give her twenty bucks. They also all know that if Meg wants twenty bucks from Ash, she’ll end up leaving with twenty bucks.

Right now though, Ash is completely oblivious to anything happening inside the parlor. He sits by the front window in a wooden chair with his legs propped up on the wide window sill. He’s been staring out that window for some time now, which is something he does a lot.

“Hey, Ash.” Dean calls out to him, “Anything exciting happening out there?”

It’s kind of a joke. Excitement is a rare occurrence on this bit of street.

Ash brushes his brown mullet over his shoulder and waves a hand at Dean without even turning around. “Come check this out,” he says.

“What’s up, man?” Dean claps him on the shoulder and looks out at what Ash is seeing.

Past the flyers on the window, the only thing to be seen across from the parlor is an old, abandoned building. Dean is pretty sure it used be an old apartment building, damaged in a fire or something like that. Usually, the place is a hangout for druggies hopped up on a slew of different things and/or bored teenagers looking for an “adventure.”

Today though, in the tiny little parking lot right next to the building, there’s a gray Chevy pickup truck parked next to a red sedan, and lodged in between them is a big, black Harley Davidson. The first person Dean sees is a middle-aged woman in a pencil skirt and purple blouse, scribbling something down on a clipboard in her hand. Then he sees a younger woman, dark haired and pretty, leaning against the pickup truck with her eyes glued to the phone in her hand. She doesn’t seem very interested in whatever is going on. In fact, she seems downright displeased judging by the look she shoots a third person, who Dean can only assume just asked her a question. This third person is a man about Dean's own age, and close to 6 feet tall from what he can tell through the window. He’s big and broad shouldered, a bit larger than Dean.

The man across the street is gesturing at the building as he speaks, spreading his arms like he's sharing a vision. He turns just slightly, and Dean catches a glimpse of an unshaven face that brings back a flash of memory from the night before. Black leather and blue eyes, a scruffy face and a black motorcycle: all lit up by the dim glow of a porch light.

Charlie and Jo's new neighbor. Dean looks between the man and the young woman, who are now having a heated discussion over something while the older woman shifts awkwardly.

_"They're probably together,"_ he assumes about the couple, and for some reason the thought disappoints him.

He looks away from the trio across the street and instead looks at Ash, “You been watching them all this time, creepo?”

Ash laughs and shrugs, “Ain’t got nothing else to do, man.”

From the back of the parlor Bobby calls out, “You _could_ sweep the floors like I told ya to do three days ago.”

Ash’s feet fall off the window sill with a clunk and he whips his head towards Bobby with an incredulous look. He glances from Bobby to Dean and shakes his head, turning back to the window.

“Old man’s got hearing like a fucking fruit bat.” He grumbles.

“I heard that.”

Deans laughs as Ash throws his hands up in the air in a “see what I mean?,” sort of gesture.

Dean turns back to the window and watches the strangers across the street. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to the rugged man, and while his attention usually would’ve been focused on the pretty brunette, this time he barely even notices her. His eyes follow the man as he walks over to the Harley and digs something out of a bag slung over the side.

“Wonder what they’re doing over there.” Dean says, almost to himself.

“Who knows,” Ash replies, assuming Dean was actually asking him, “Maybe they’re actually gonna fix that place up though, give me something nicer to look at everyday,” he adds with a chuckle.

"Some new people moved in down the street from Charlie and Jo," Dean says. "I'm pretty sure it was that guy I saw in the driveway of the house last night." He waves his hand in the general direction of Mystery Man across the street. He does his best to sound indifferent, like he hasn’t suddenly become intrigued by these two in a strangely short amount of time.

“Hmmm.” Ash nods, and Dean can tell that he really doesn’t care all that much. It’s probably because this town has a habit of always staying mostly the same. New people rarely show up, and if they do they’re gone again within a year. They come with the notion that their life here will be a romanticized, small-town, quaint sort of life. Then they realize that small-town life is only for a select few. Dean knows exactly why Ash is so uninterested; these people will be gone before anyone has a chance to really get to know them, and they’ll leave behind a half-renovated building as a reminder to the town that change is not something so easily come by.  
Dean, with one last look out the window, sighs and turns away. He’s grown used to the small-town life routine and he honestly loves it here. He loves this little town and its little people. But, as the image of two strangers dances in his head, he finds himself thinking a whole lot of “what ifs.”


	3. Renovations

The thing about small towns is that news travels fast. Most of the population knows each other, and quite a few make it their business to know  _ everyone else’s  _ business. Dean only went two days without knowing a thing about the new folks before it seemed like nearly everyone he knew was talking about them.

Donna and Jody, two women in the County Sheriff’s Office he had befriended, told him that the new couple’s last name was Laffite. Which meant Dean had been right when he guessed that they were married. 

He had bumped into Cas and Balthazar on Sunday as the two were heading into their antique shop to do inventory, and Cas grabbed his hand and excitedly said, “Did you hear about the new couple? Pamela says they’re from New York City!” 

Dean smiled at him and replied with, “Really? N-Y-C, huh? Wonder why they came here…” In fact, Dean found himself wondering a lot about the new couple, more so than he thought he would’ve. Dean has never been the type to get too caught up in the town’s newest sources of gossip, whatever they may be at any given week. But this time, things are different. He feels different about these folks, like maybe they might stray from the norm and actually stay awhile. 

It’s been exactly a week since Dean first saw the Lafittes’, as he now knows is their name, outside the tattoo parlor. Last night was Thursday, which meant another pizza night at Charlie and Jo’s. It also meant another chance to maybe catch a glimpse of their new neighbors. That, Dean will admit, sounds rather creepy, but his curiosity has gotten the better of him this past week. Probably he’s just bored. 

There was not another chance spotting in the driveway, to Dean’s admitted disappointment. But through the window he did spot the flash of a TV screen showing what looked like an old Western and a man’s legs propped up on a coffee table. 

Dean solemnly acknowledges that the fact that he slowed his car down in front of a house and looked into it’s partially curtained window to spy on someone was actually incredibly weird. He has no good excuse for it, honestly, other than,  _ “C’mon, it’s a small town, nothing ever happens here, can you blame me for being curious?” _

Presently, Dean is on his noon break in the basement of Devil’s Advocate, though he never really sees it as a significant break seeing as working at a tattoo parlor in a small town is not the most strenuous of work; they usually have a very slim number of daily customers. Whenever there’s a lull in activity is basically “break” for Dean and the others.

Today, Dean doesn’t have a scheduled appointment until 1:30, and Meg and Ash are taking any walk-ins. While he usually likes to hang out in the front and watch the people getting their ink, today he decided he really truly needed to take a break. 

The basement is a small, dimly lit room that smells vaguely of incense. Rowena, Crowley’s mother, is the reason for the smell. The woman is nearly seventy and has claimed, since she was fifteen, to be a practicing witch. Dean, however, has yet to see anything that actually proved that claim.

One time, Rowena borrowed the basement of her son’s tattoo parlor to hold a coven gathering. Honest to God, she had a bunch of witches come into this tiny little basement with candles and herbs and all that shit. That many witches with that many candles should’ve been a clear fire hazard from the start. But it wasn’t until one of the witches (whoever it was wouldn’t own up to it afterwards) knocked over a bunch of them on accident and nearly burned the place down.  _ Then  _ they decided to move their gatherings to a larger venue. The poor carpet still has the scorch marks, though they’re hidden by the very same faded blue couch that Dean has sprawled face down on.

He shoves his face into one of the mismatched pillows and groans. He can’t say whether the noise was out of exhaustion or frustration. Probably some combination of the two. The exhaustion, he knows, is entirely his fault, seeing as it was his and only his decision to stay up nearly the whole night (for two nights in a row) marathoning the Lord of the Rings movies. The frustration on the other hand...well, okay, maybe that’s his fault too.

His conversation with Jo and Charlie last week had been getting to him. He told them, and himself, that he was okay being single. He didn’t mind it. Turns out he’s lonelier than he thought. He had gotten so used to being alone that he had forgotten how much he loved being with someone. Loving them, being loved back.

So yea, maybe Jo and Charlie know him well enough to see that he was in dire need of some romance. Only thing is, there’s not too many options in a town whose population rarely changes. He’s pretty much considered every eligible bachelor, and bachelorette, in the entire town and none of them deserve the rose (Disclaimer: he only watched The Bachelor once, okay? Once.). He dated a few, but there was never that “spark” with any of them. They were kind, they were funny, they were interesting, but they were never The One. The last time he felt that strong pull towards someone was with Cas. And that obviously did not end in his favor. Before that it was with Lisa, and before her with Cassie. But something always happens to ruin any relationship Dean ever has.

He’s not sure why he started thinking about this now of all times. Why did it take him years to figure out how alone he felt? Maybe it’s because of the new couple. Dean has no chance with either of them, considering the little “married” detail obviously, but maybe it was just the way their appearance in town shook up his routine, his unchanging day-to-day grind, that had him thinking about things he had been pushing down for so long.

_ I should thank them _ , He laughs dryly at the thought. That would be a strange conversation. But hey, he knows at least one of them, the Mister half of Mr. and Mrs. Lafitte , is currently across the street talking to construction workers. It’s the perfect opportunity! Hah.

He knows the man is over there because Ash had announced it to the entire parlor about thirty minutes ago. He’s constantly making commentary on whatever he sees going on outside, despite no one ever asking him to. This time, though, Dean was actually a bit curious about the happenings across the street. He’d looked out and saw only the husband there, with Rufus and Cole and some of the other construction workers he knows. His wife was nowhere to be seen. Dean hadn’t been able to tell what was going exactly, but he figured he’d hear about it from the guys later on.

Dean’s stomach rumbles just then, and he sighs along with it. He forgets his seemingly perpetual exhaustion and ever-present aloneness and he forgets the renovations across the street and the feeling that everything is moments away from changing completely. Instead he remembers the pie.

Immediately Dean is launching himself up off the couch and trekking back up the steps of the basement thinking only of the leftover cherry pie Meg had stuck in the break room fridge for him.

Dean begins to hum as he walks the few steps from the basement door to the break room door. It begins as a random tune but morphs into Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” as soon as he tears off the piece of foil covering his unhealthy lunch choice and grabs the plastic fork Meg left on top of it. 

He shovels an arguably too-big bite into his mouth and heads out of the break room, barely able to chew but humming the whole way out.

Meg, Ash, and Crowley glance up from the table where they’ve just started a “grown-up” version of Go Fish (in which the person told to “go fish” has to leave money in the center of the table in addition to taking a card), and they chuckle and shake their heads at Dean’s over-stuffed, chipmunk cheeks. 

“Take a breath will ya?” Bobby jokes when he looks up from the customer whose ink he’s touching up to see Dean cram another bite into his mouth after he’d only just swallowed the last.

“Mmmpph” Dean mumbles around the dessert. He trails over towards Bobby and watches him tattoo an odd symbol in dark red ink onto the forearm of the customer, a man whom he recognizes but doesn’t know. Bobby tosses a glare up at him and waves him away with one gloved hand and an expression that says, “Get that food away from here, you know better.”

Dean grimaces and mumbles an apology, having momentarily forgotten that food isn’t allowed so close to the stations. He starts over to one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the place when the bell over the door jingles and a gust of warm summer air rushes in, followed by a very pretty young woman.

Every head in the room turns towards the newcomer and she smiles, tight-lipped and unconvincing. Her pretty face is framed by dark, shiny hair and her obsidian eyes seem to show no emotion but indifference. Dean is almost positive he knows who this is, and his chewing almost slows to a stop.

No one speaks for a moment, until Meg sets down her cards and stands up. She grins as she walks towards the young woman and says, “Hi there, are you here to set up an appointment? My name is Meg.”

The woman clutches the cream-colored leather purse slung over her shoulder closer to her body as Meg comes closer, as if to protect it from her. Meg stops, raising a pierced eyebrow. Dean shovels another bite of pie into his mouth to keep from laughing at her expression.

This woman looks out of place here, with her tight-fitting, dark purple dress, dangling diamond earrings, and obviously expensive purse. Dean would never be the type to assume though, for all they know the girl could have a full back piece.

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s cold and shrill sounding. “No, of course not. My name is Andrea Kormos-Lafitte.” She finally extends a delicate hand to shake Meg’s. Her fake, painted fingernails are so long they remind Dean vaguely of bird talons. Then his brain registers the name and he knows she’s one half of the new couple.

Dean doesn’t miss the fact that she had used a hyphenated name, and she had said “Kormos” with an emphasis that suggested the name should mean something to them. Dean has to admit it sounds at least a bit familiar. He’s not sure why though.

“That’s nice,” Meg says, with just the smallest amount of snark, when the woman doesn’t say anything else. “So if you’re not here for ink then what can we do for you?”

There’s a split second where Dean sees a flash of what seems like surprise cross Andrea’s face, as if she was expecting a different response.

She clears her throat and her eyes start to drift around the parlor as she says to Meg, “Are you the owner here or…”

Crowley gets up from the back table, throws a glance at Ash and pauses long enough to say, “Don’t touch my cards, boy,” before walking towards the front.

He extends his hand towards Andrea when he gets to her and she grips it briefly and delicately as he says, “I’m the owner. Alongside that other old man over there.” He gestures back towards the station where Bobby sits rolling his eyes.

Andrea stares at Crowley, Bobby, and the rest of them like she's really not sure what to make of the whole place. Her eyes linger on Ash’s out-of-date mullet and Dean's tattoos, then Bobby's faded old clothes and Meg’s piercings, before finally looking back, or more like down, at Crowley.

She would've been taller than Crowley anyway, but the five inch heels she wears have her practically towering over the man. Dean is used to seeing Crowley, with his five foot five stature, miniaturized by taller men, but it’s still odd to see it done by a woman. Hell, she's nearly as tall as Dean in those shoes, and Dean is a pretty tall guy.

Dean is staring at her shoes, wondering why in the hell girls wear such strappy, uncomfortable looking things like that, when Andrea says to Crowley, “I simply came in here to tell the owner of this place that there will be some renovations going on across the street in that dump that's apparently considered “prime real estate.” She sighs, then purses her lips. “I do hope the construction won't disturb your business too much. Things like this can be very disruptive.” The tone of her voice almost suggests that she couldn't care less whether it disturbs them or not. But maybe Dean was imagining that.

Crowley nods. They all knew that there was going to be construction going on across the street, that much was completely obvious. “May I ask what sort of renovations you plan on making to our local “dump”?” There’s just a little bit of snark to the question, not quite enough to warrant a reaction from the woman.

“My  _ husband _ plans to turn the place into a coffee shop of all things. I can’t imagine we’ll ever see the project completed.” It is entirely obvious that this woman does not agree in the slightest with her husband’s endeavors, and Dean is very curious as to why that is.

“Why don’t you expect it to be finished?” Andrea turns to look at Meg, who asked the question.

“My husband tends not to finish the things he starts,” she says. Then she smiles, and this time it’s a little less tight-lipped and a little more warm than it had been at first. “Again, I apologize ahead of time for the noise and disruption. And probably for the empty shell of a building my husband will leave behind.”

Dean personally thinks it's a little unfair for her to have so little faith in her husband. Maybe he'll turn the place into a thriving little coffee shop, who knows. Then again Dean  _ doesn't  _ know her or her husband, so she could be completely in the right.

“Well,” Bobby smiles from the back, “if he does get it finished, we'll be the first to come over.”

Andrea smiles back at him, even friendlier this time, then she turns and is gone.

Once the door swings shut behind her the rest of them are left to talk about this newest development. Not much is said, but Dean hears a twinge of what seems like hope in all of their voices.

Looks like he's not the only one in this town itching for some change.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
